


Cold be heart and hand and bone

by Cirilla9



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Crack, Creepy, Final Battle, Gallows Humor, What-If, White Walkers, Wraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 19:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14002683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: A lesson of fighting from a White Walker





	Cold be heart and hand and bone

His eyes from green turned blue, his hair from gold became white. In this land without colors frost covered everything until there was no warmth, no feelings, no yearnings or needs for honor or glory. The whole world changed with that perspective, great wars of the south seemed nothing more than petty brawls between ignorant lords.

The walking was still somewhat of a challenge, his limbs did not want to listen to him spontaneously as they did once, his control over how his joints worked left much to be desired. Now, when he was one of them, the way the rest of his companions moved did not seem stiff anymore, it was pure swift grace, possessing the precision alike the one with which the frost painted glass.

He walked though, obediently following one of White Walkers, compliant to the unspoken orders of the one that turned him into the wraith, who gave him the new life, where everything acquired new meaning. He put one frozen leg after the other, again and again, dragging his unused to coldness body on the appointed place, where the opponents’ army waited.

As he reached the destination, the countless troops unfurled before his eyes, banners flew above them. There were black canvas with red three headed dragon, there were white ones with giant wolf snarling at the enemies, there were red with golden lions roaring… that should remind him of something but it was too distinct, too far away feeling to grasp it.

The emblems has lost all the meaning now, the names of great families were blank; he had forgotten his own name.

 

***

 

The fight was mechanical, stripped of feelings as everything else in his life now. He didn’t have remorse, he didn’t feel sorrow or the joy of the victory. All was placid now, calm in a way only death could soothe pains and delights of life.

His blade was a long sharply formed icicle, his lacking hand turned into another knifelike deadly weapon. He didn’t remember gold swords or rich armors or destriers willing to go into battle as much as their masters.

When he saw a dragon, however (one of the enemies’, with its blood still coursing hot in its veins, and eyes that sparked with life not obscured by dead blue yet, the one that still spit fire and not ice, the one that had its own will yet), something awakened in him, some long forgotten instinct overwhelmed him as he transformed his sword-like icicle into a spear and was about to charge at the beast head on-

-when a command held him in place. Not a word was spoken but his thoughts were pierced with the clear instruction, the crystal of foreign will cut through his brain which hurt almost physically. If he could still feel pain, he would have screamed.

_Do not charge the dragon. You’ve got a spear, just threw it. You’re not on a tournament._

 


End file.
